


Decompression

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 171
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It is a commonly known fact amongst the Golden Deer that their former professor and the Alliance leader are fucking.

No one talks about it in their presence; they keep their relationship well enough to themselves, and it causes no obvious trouble to the war effort. In fact, they act so underwhelmingly _normal_ that the Golden Deer are wont to forget about it completely—that is, until one walks by either of their rooms at an unlucky (or lucky, depending on the point of view) hour, or when one accidentally spies a bruise peeking out under Claude’s collar.

(The latter makes Hilda shudder, and she advises him to cover that shit up by smacking him in the neck.)

Reassuringly, they do show some kind of commitment to each other, and if anyone was curious (or gutsy) enough to consult either of them, they would say that the arrangement does significant good to their productivity and mental stability.

Prophylactics are a godsend.

* * *

Claude has gotten rather good at reading Teach, if he does say so himself. From his usual seat in the Cardinal’s Room at Byleth’s right hand, he has the unique perspective of both what’s above and below the table. That is, even when she looks perfectly composed from the waist up, he can note the incessant tapping of her foot accompanying the tension in her jaw, the undulation of muscles as she grinds her teeth. The news today isn’t great; Claude hears it himself from Catherine at the war meeting. And while it seems to incite some stress in Teach, he knows their situation isn’t dire. He wonders, briefly, if she’ll come by propositioning him tonight. The thought comes and goes in a matter of seconds, quickly relegated to the back of his mind, and as the meeting proceeds he does not so much as glance in her direction, with the exception of when she herself speaks.

You’ve got to be professional about these things.

* * *

Byleth is not particularly good with emotions, but she is familiar with desire and with her body. Lust (it took her years to learn the name of it) comes in waves and addles the brain, distracting with intrusive, heated thoughts of skin and sweat and exposure. In her unvoiced opinion, it’s best to handle the problem oneself than to leave it festering. Involving another character is a new development, and one she rather enjoys. That the feeling is mutual—this is perhaps the most gratifying part.

She knocks code: four times, evenly spaced, deliberate.

Claude opens the door with a “Hey there, Teach” and steps aside to let Byleth in. “Thought you’d stop by.”

A click sounds Claude shutting the door softly and Byleth takes a step toward him. Claude makes no move; he’s nearly backed against the door, but it’s Teach. His Friend. He’s comfortable. He _wants_ her close. He watches her eyelashes as her downward gaze flits up to meet his. Her face looks almost pudgy from this angle. It’s cute. Claude smiles. Her big green eyes really complete the look.

“Is this a good time?” Byleth asks. It’s deep in the evening, at a time when the activities around the monastery have all wound down: the merchants have packed up their wares, the training grounds are empty and awaiting the earliest risers, and the only lights in the library are those of night wanderers’ one or two candles. Still, Byleth knows Claude has some extra plans to flesh out before the day’s end, and doesn’t want to keep him for too long.

Claude nods, brings one hand around the back of her neck, the other to rest on her cheek. The gloves are off, and under the rough calluses his movements are gentle. He draws her in and the warmth in his kiss feels like drinking rich hot chocolate on a cold Ethereal Moon’s night, and the increasingly familiar scent of him sets her at ease. But the sweetness of it is short lived; the tension that’s been gnawing at her for days soon eats its way through. She wraps her arms around his neck, presses her body against his. He slides his hands down to her waist, slipping his fingers up and under the fabric of her bodice, fingers setting her skin alight, and Byleth groans something soft but desperate while Claude’s back slams against the door.

“Easy, Teach,” his voice rumbles, making the knot in Byleth’s gut tighten anew. “The neighbors will know what we’re up to.”

(He mocks; the neighbors know what they’re up to. Lorenz sighs and decides it’s an excellent time for a walk.)

 _Let them_ , she wants to say. But she’s so pent up and wanting that she grabs ahold of his absurdly expensive-looking jacket (praise be, he’s already removed all the accessories and frills), drags him to the other side of the room, and pins him to the wall. “Here, then.” Stone makes less noise than wood. Much less than a rickety old dormitory bed.

Besides, she wants to be on her knees.

“Aggressive, are we?” Claude pulls her close as she grunts her reply. He runs his hands up and down her back, and the tight fit of her tank and shorts leave little to the imagination. Really, he wants to grab that fine, toned ass—have her grind up against his hard-on and moan obscenities interspersed between the names of Fódlan’s cherished saints. But patience, patience.

Patience? Already, Byleth’s hands fumble at Claude’s belt.

“What are you up to?” Claude’s breath is hot against her ear. He captures her wrists and in one palm she feels the scruff of his facial hair while the other takes slow, open-mouthed kisses that make her forget about anything that doesn’t exist in this space right now.

“I just want to please you,” Byleth says. Her hands lace behind his neck as she presses her lithe body against his (and Claude feels a tremor become still), pulls him down to her height, plants a kiss just beneath his ear. “I want you to tell me how good I am.” She traces the curve of his ear with her tongue and feels him shudder.

“You know I already think you’re amazing,” Claude replies. “Sharp, strong, enigmatic yet irrefutably charming…” And he can’t help himself—he grabs two handfuls of ass, squeezes and adds, “Sexy, too.” Oh, how he’d love to tear apart those tights. He’d seriously consider it if he didn’t seriously think she’d maim him for it. “Being able to live out a teacher kink? Not bad, either.”

Byleth snorts and renews her attempt at his belt. “Not applicable.”

“Completely applicable. The dormitory is full of people who quake at the mere thought of calling you anything other than ‘Professor.’ ”

“Hurry up and drop your pants.”

He laughs as Byleth, having successfully undone the belt, gets on her knees. “Yes, ma’am.”

Pants out of the way, his erect penis strains against his snug undergarments. Byleth is a big fan of his cock. Claude‘s known this without her even saying a word of it. An intelligible word, at least. Gently, she grazes her teeth over the fabric, along its outline, her warm breath filtering through. Her tongue leaves a wet spot at the tip, and when she gropes him she’s pleased by sigh that escapes his lips.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Claude says, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Really?” Byleth hums. “I couldn’t tell.” She drags down his undergarments, freeing his cock. It’s a great cock: not small and not too big—and confirmed to be capable of drawing out the basest, most depraved noises Byleth has ever heard herself produce. And as far as aesthetics go—well, with a healing sub-specialty, let’s just say Manuela’s not the only physician who gets to see The Complete Male Anatomy, and Byleth can say with confidence that Claude’s member is well-groomed and relatively quite handsome.

She starts from the tip and drags her tongue back and forth, a little further each time, but always slowly, slowly. Teasing is an acquired delight for Byleth, whom Claude has repeatedly convinced of its merits. He isn’t the only one who finds satisfaction in breaking his partner down to pleas and gasps.

“You know.” Byleth looks up at Claude as he says, “If you keep this up, I’m going to lose this fight with me holding back the urge to make that pretty mouth of yours take it deep.”

“Is that so?” She continues the same languid pace.

Claude combs back her hair, gathering it into a ponytail. “Uh-huh.”

Without warning, Byleth takes its entirety into her mouth. Claude tilts his head back and she hears a groan emerge from the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, abandons the ponytail but tangles his fingers in her hair as he follows the movement of her head back and forth. Her tongue works magic, and while she still tortures him with the same pace he can at least revel in the sensation of her lips and their slick tightness.

“Good?” Byleth asks. It’s almost without pause.

“Like I said—” and he combs through her hair once more, “—you’re amazing.”

She wraps her fingers around the base of his cock, moves her hand up and down in synchrony with the bobbing of her head. Claude moans a soft “ _fuck_ ” and Byleth aches to touch herself but opts to handle it later. Right now, she wants to be the cause of euphoria in another human being. The bliss is fleeting, but the way they do it, it comes at no cost. Everybody wins. Unlike war, where one’s victory is another’s loss.

Byleth’s nose brushes his pubic hair and Claude’s hands pull her even closer—gradually—begging, _deeper, deeper_. She braces her hands on his thighs (those sweet, sweet wyvern-riding thighs), pulls back, takes it all in again. Then she’s pushed slightly backwards.

“Give me a second.” Claude strips his jacket and tosses it haphazardly at the bed, loosens two extra buttons of his white shirt and passes his fingers through his hair to make himself look a little less unkempt (it doesn’t work). Before he can offer to take Byleth’s cloak it’s already flying toward the dejected jacket. Claude never tires of seeing the shape of her body. Byleth is a slight woman, whose limber figure belies the tremendous strength she packs in those muscles, whose voluptuousness (read: _her huge rack_ ) betrays her agility. Hey—even Hilda complains to him periodically about how a nice pair of tits can be a blessing and a curse.

“What are you thinking about?” Byleth notices that look in his eyes he gets when he’s thinking something mischievous.

“Oh, nothing. Just about how you could easily swindle a man out of everything he’s got. His money, his life, and probably his spouse.”

“Tell me more,” Byleth says, and the way she takes his dick back into her mouth makes it utterly impossible for Claude to do anything of the sort. In almost no time, Claude von Riegan—man of many words, schemer extraordinaire, charismatic and cunning leader of the Alliance—is reduced to a set of guttural, incoherent babbles.

“Teach,” Claude says when he gets ahold of himself, “you’re one of the few people who can get me to shut up on a whim. Though, rest assured, you’re the only one who’s had the privilege to try such _compelling_ tactics.” He begins to gather her hair away from her face once again.

She hums an acknowledgement through a mouthful of cock, and continues to work dutifully at every inch he’s got. Diligent. Determined: she’s going to make him come with her mouth this time. This has already been decided. Claude begins to rock his hips. Byleth condones it. Relishes in it. Groans and cops a feel of a nice, firm glute with a free hand.

Then it’s quicker, deeper, tighter. Slick and dizzying, and for a bit Claude just wants all his thoughts to disappear. Like always, they don’t, but he can temporarily substitute them with something more conducive. Fantasies of good ol’ Teach that he previously thought would be restricted to his imagination but as of late have come to life: Her, splayed out on a mattress, spent. On top of him, riding, in-charge, licking her lips and tangling her fingers in his hair. Fingernails raking down his chest. Her mouth, her breasts—the roll of her hips when his fingers are inside her, the tremors that wrack her body when she comes and the way her voice breaks along with it.

“Don’t stop.”

She savors the needy tone in his voice; it’s rare for Claude to lose his composure, but to Byleth it’s a skill, and one that she is rapidly improving. Claude’s fingers tighten in her hair while his hips begin to buck with more force and Byleth renews her efforts in anticipation. She has it all planned out: she’s going to lap up every last drop of it. The thought of it makes her skin feel hot and she is immensely relieved she stripped even somewhat. She lets a hand stray down to where she craves contact most, ceases to deny herself of this pleasure any longer—slips her fingers under her shorts and panties both and flinches when they find that spot. Claude loves it when she touches herself and she knows it. If only he knew how wet she’d gotten. He’d take good care of her; she knows that well.

Byleth becomes a little less consistent but this is no problem for Claude because he can hold the fort for both of them. He thrusts deeper, slightly, more and more—“Sorry—I’m almost—” and Byleth urges him on by digging her nails into his thighs while her other hand brings her closer and closer to the edge—and she moans.

Claude recalls those nails biting into his shoulders. Legs wrapped around his hips and pulling him closer. Lips trailing his collarbone and filthy, whispered promises that gave him shivers in darkened corners.

For a moment, he is certain that he is in love with her. It hits him like an epiphany, trailed by a small sense of loss.

He manages half a warning before it happens, not that it would have made any difference. It’s punctuated with a groan that’s forced out as if he’d been holding his breath and he closes his eyes while he rides out his high, leaning almost limp against the wall. Byleth cleans it all up, and Claude flinches from the overstimulation. She sits back on her ankles, wipes her chin with the back of her wrist. Looks up at her blissed-out friend and smirks. Swallows.

“Good?” Byleth asks.

Claude helps her up, shakes his head, and pulls up his pants all at the same time. “I don’t know. Is having the substitute Archbishop swallow my load sufficient grounds for excommunication?” He pulls her toward the bed and plops down onto it.

“Only if you didn’t like it.” She takes a seat next to him, feet hanging off the side of the bed.

He drapes an arm over her lap. “Well then, yes, it was very good. A very enjoyable experience.”

Byleth falls back to lie with him. She strokes his cheek, admires how soft he looks when he closes his eyes, content. He takes her hand, kisses the back of it. He opens his eyes, and Byleth thinks of the green blur of a forest viewed from the back of a pegasus.

“You know I care about you, right?” Claude says.

He wants to say more but it’s not allowed.

Not yet.

Byleth nods. She does not speak, but she tucks away the strands of hair that strayed onto Claude’s face behind his ear. Brushes a thumb across an eyebrow. Rests her palm on his cheek. It’s all too tender for this whole thing they’re doing to be limited fulfillment that is exclusively sexual.

She doesn’t say that she’s catching on.

Byleth lingers several minutes more, whispering honeyed words and indulging in the lighthearted laughter his wit draws out of her. The pad of Claude’s thumb rubs gentle circles into the back of her hand, her shoulder, her hip, and she feels so relaxed that she worries if she closes her eyes she will fall asleep right then and there. That is the time she musters all her will, bids him goodnight, and excuses herself.

For a while, Claude is content to sit back and daydream about the future he sees for Fódlan. But inevitably, these mere dreams (albeit mere _big_ dreams) transform into images of maps, family trees and allegiances, supply lists, schedules, diagrams, and more. He is determined to see his One Big Dream through in his lifetime, and actually _live_ it himself. He likes the thought of doing so with Teach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's now or never  
> here it is

Claude was not her first. Before Garreg Mach, she had relations with one of Jeralt’s mercenaries, hired only for a short campaign. He was sweet on her, and though she was not always sure how to respond to his tender pursuits, they nonetheless pleased her. They were an occasional (if not all too frequent, in her opinion) feature in camp gossip, and soon enough Jeralt picked up on the goings-on between these two.

One evening, when the sky was awash with vibrant orange, and the afternoon was only a fleeing indigo vignette, Jeralt asked for a private word with his daughter, and out of earshot, he said, “You’re an adult now, and that means that if you want something, you’re going to find some way to get it. So let me give you some advice.”

He said, “You have the right to refuse. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.”

He said, “Use a rubber. Until you have his word that he commits himself to your side to the end, and he as demonstrated as much to be convincing about it, do not go without a prophylactic.” Byleth asked where she would get one, and he replied (albeit in an iffy tone) that the man _should_ have one, but he could point out a vendor at their next city if she insisted. If the man is adamant that they do not need one, “He is scum. Leave him.”

He said, “If it’s not fun for you both, it’s probably not worth it.”

And so she took these three pieces of advice, had a healthy but on the whole an unfulfilling relationship (for reasons not confined to tent cots and bedchambers), and when the time came for him to move on to another squadron, they parted with a decent show of dignity and respect.

* * *

Byleth was Claude’s first. He had stolen—consensually—kisses from pretty ladies in the Alliance (and in fact his first kiss was in his boyhood, in Almyra—mere play, with a scrawny little street rat like him but with a thick plait of dark hair down her back), but so consumed was he with the war effort that his raging thoughts could hardly squander a moment on romantic pursuits, let alone sexual exploration. Certainly, imaginations crept in from time to time, but to devise and execute the game of wooing the woman, to invest his devotions in her like those sappy corny novels that brainwashed him (in the rare times he picked them up, that is), and to pour his attentions wholly into this singular effort always seemed so incredibly daunting and so far from the forefront of what he _should_ be doing that he never bothered.

And in truth he still did not bother! However, he allowed that love may not be the narrow-focused effort he previously thought it might be—that it could (and likely should) be sought after in parallel to the circumstances of typical daily life: work, training, governance, study, play, et cetera. His lenience with the idea stretched enough to consider that it does not even need to be _in order_. Desire consumes in a way that classic depictions of love do not, and wartime does not offer the patient linearity that the latter demands. 

Which brings them to where they are now.

Byleth: her back flat on Claude’s mattress, the blankets in a rumpled heap to the side. Dressed in a loose white tunic (one she pilfered off him!) to stay warm if for no other purpose, though Claude once remarked that a present often evokes more excitement before it has been unwrapped. A soft strip of cloth is tied over her eyes and her wrists are bound just above her head. Nothing else.

Claude, in simple brown canvas pants—layman’s clothes (peacetime clothes!)—comfier than the studded, billowing, decorated garb of his usual attire; and a plain gray shirt that he normally reserves for sleep. And though he would be ashamed to appear anything less than sharp in the company of the army, at the present moment dressing down was sheer bliss.

Byleth’s binds are merely a prop; a long end sticks out of the knot to loosen it with a turn of her wrist whenever she pleases. 

For now, she doesn’t. She much prefers how this sense of deprivation elevates the pleasure that Claude coaxes with two fingers pressing too adeptly inside her. She writhes her hips, a wordless plea for more. He smirks, and she feels it when he leans in for a kiss. 

“Having fun?”

Byleth almost laughs. “Too much.”

Claude had always been a fine student. Perhaps not in a formal setting, evidenced by the late assignments and a lecture or two (or five) missed for the sake of independent investigations in the hijacked names of Science and Knowledge—but he was excellent at _learning_ : observing and making conclusions, appending and amending when new information called for it, seeking meaning. In this particular arrangement, communication played a key role. They matched what the other verbally endorsed to bodily cues, and soon enough Claude only needed to hear a sigh, a whimper (if his work was stellar, a throaty moan and a passionate reciprocation), or otherwise a shift of the body, a lukewarm or halfhearted motion to know if he was doing well or erring.

It wasn’t _that_ hard, really.

Kneeling between her legs—knees up, feet planted on the bedspread—he runs his fingers featherlight up hip to knee, then with a more solid touch back down the same length. He brings his lips to the soft flesh on her inner thigh and she squirms; his beard rakes gently at her skin, his mouth hot and wet (his green eyes, she imagines with delight, _ravenous_ ), his fingers still at work, slick and curling in her tightness.

“Holding something back?” Claude asks. He wants to hear her moan.

Byleth quirks an eyebrow with a playful grin. “Are you?”

His fingers slip out for a moment, only to rub sweet and devastating pleasure at her clit. Byleth has barely the time to gasp before they’re back to their previous task. She swears, slams the pillow behind her head with her tied fists in muted frustration.

“Yes,” Claude says. “Absolutely.”

He places a kiss on a knee, and then again—lighter—further down her thigh. He draws a trail to her center with uneven pressure. She feels his lips, the warmth of his mouth, teeth nibbling, tongue stroking. All the while, those fingers still working a relentless tempo, twisting and curling and stealing the breath from her lungs.

Byleth flinches, groans when his lips strike gold. Shivers.

Perhaps one thing that Claude so loves about these sessions is that while Byleth is a staunch stoic, the way she expresses her pleasure is just so _human_. He half expected this goddess of a woman (his former professor, no less, in case one needed reminding) to be as immovable as a statue, ever the picture of calm. But as he learned her body, he learned he could draw out the need into her voice, aggravate the pallor of her skin and bedew it with sweat, make her body tremble and arch in ways that stretched his will paper thin. It became a game of escalating comfort and thrill: the fear of hurt or going to far, what if she doesn’t like this, what if she didn’t like that? Then followed by an understanding, then a need to test boundaries again. 

So she lies, hands tied, eyes lidded by cloth, now the shirt drawn up and bunched at her throat. Her breasts exposed and chest heaving with her labored breaths and she tries to hold in in her voice, fails.

“Claude, please—” when she manages to get a word in, “—don’t stop.”

He knows she’s getting close: her body’s tensioned like a bowstring, quivers like a strained muscle, and while it would only be his upmost pleasure to release, to set her free… well…

He debates it and figures what the hell.

He fucks her with his fingers faster deeper, engages his best oral maneuvers. Byleth moans and swears and curls into herself slightly, bearing the agony that just precedes the crescendo. Then she goes rigid for a second, collapses limp into the sheets, sighs deeply in a blissful high; and Claude peels the cloth off her eyes to see what world she’s now inhabiting. He doesn’t interrupt. Just stares at her adoringly and strokes her shoulder, her collarbones, her cheek, her hair.

Byleth pulls him in and gives him a kiss that feels like pure happiness.

“Good?” Claude asks.

She nods. “Now it’s your turn.” Her smile is like sunlight at dawn.

“What do you have in mind?”

Claude registers a smirk and he’s suddenly set on his back, pushed into the mattress, wrists shackled on either side of his head in an iron grip by Byleth’s self-freed hands. She doesn’t care to answer, only proceeds to show what she implies. She grinds hard against his straining cock, still confined in his pants (ah, but no undergarments), and he can’t quite see but he’s sure that Byleth is soaking through the material. Her hands slide the length of his forearms, alight on his chest where fingers stroke loving little circles and swirls that are tormentingly discordant with the roughness her hips promise. She begs the shirt off, lifting from the hem, and Claude complies, pulling it over his head. A hunger rises to Byleth’s eyes and she licks her lips.

Claude is a fine specimen of a man. Rich, brown skin, smooth save for scars that she passes her hands over like the rest of him; no need for reminders here, no need to conjure ghosts. Only visions of the next tier of pleasure are condoned. She rakes fingernails down his chest and strokes light along the trail of hair down his rippled abdomen and past his navel. She pulls the pants off and he lies bare naked underneath her. And she still has a shirt—ha! 

She reaches over to grab the designated rubber off the bedside table and swiftly takes care of it.

She resumes her grinding, laying slick on his cock and the friction is sublime. Claude closes his eyes, rests his hands on her hips, unwittingly digs his fingers harder into them with every cruel gyration. Byleth leans down, a curtain of hair falling down on one of Claude’s cheeks as she pulls the remaining locks behind an ear. So close and too slow—Claude takes her lovely face in his hands and presses his lips to hers. They’re heartbreakingly pliant and accommodating and her tongue brushes sweetly around his. Her hands cherish every muscle and hollow they run across on his torso, and when her kisses stray to his cheek, his ear, his neck, each one is catastrophically tender, as if a reliable dam is holding against a flood. He feels he wants to fill her up with himself—her mind with thoughts of him, her mouth with the taste of him, her cunt with his cock and with the telltale juices of sex. He sits up and pulls her legs around his hips, grabs her ass and—gods, he has to have her _immediately_ —pulls her down onto him, whispering _please please please_ like a prayer.

A breath of relief from both sides. They rest like this for several seconds before those hips resume a rhythm, slow and inquisitive, exploring. Claude buries his face in her shoulder, in the softness of her chest, and Byleth turns his head up by his chin to bring his eyes to meet her own. Heavy-lidded over cheeks flushed pink, thin locks of hair sticking to her forehead with damp. Hips still rolling, taking him in, easing out, repeat. She kisses him deeply as he holds her tight against him, and in the midst of counting his blessings, wondering how this pocket of euphoria found a place in this tumultuous life, Claude is pushed down into the mattress again.

“Now, Claude,” Byleth hums, “here is your chance to teach me something.” She places a hand over his eyes. He plays along. “Does this feel nice?” He is about to answer, _Are you kidding me? Of course it does_ , when she shifts her hips and moves them with a beautiful undulating roll and he loses his chance to speak. “Or how about—this?” Her voice breaks and he thinks she has perhaps learned something new. Claude’s answer to the posed question is a thrust and Byleth gasps.

“Yeah, I like that one,” he says, peeling the hand off his eyes with a grin.

She cares little for the gloating. “More,” she says. She just wants him to do it again.

Eyes close and breaths hitch, it speeds and slows and speeds again. He slams into her and she brings her weight down to fill herself deeper, angles to bolster the assault on that divine spot inside her. Prides are tossed aside and they’re two humans who, in consequence of discarding thought and fear and self-consciousness, experience the highest of pleasures to a chorus of grunts and whines, moans and profanities.

She still has the shirt on. Claude tweaks a nipple through the cloth, rubs adulterated friction on the stiff nub, and Byleth crumples. Her mouth finds his neck; it tastes the salt of his sweat and can feel his pulse, the quickened beating of his heart. She tracks sloppy kisses and nibbles an earlobe. Claude sighs, surrenders for few priceless moments, then makes to flip them both with Byleth’s belly on the mattress.

He slips back in from behind, her sex tight but inviting, non-restricting, slicker than needed but always the more the sexier. Her body is flush against the sheets, Claude’s arms and weight penning her in. She writhes with delight, pulling a hand under the shirt to her breast, and as he thrusts into her the hand makes its way down below, to complement every exquisite pulse with divine fire triggered by that bundle of nerves that clears her head of all but pleasure. She could come again, and she wants it more than anything; at this tiny moment of time nothing means more to her. Claude’s breath against her ear puffs labored and short, his thrusts gradually intensifying with aggression—and Byleth fucking _loves_ it. There’s a free hand of his resting idly by in a fist by her face. She reaches for it, uncurls the thumb, licks at it and pulls it into her mouth. 

Byleth loses it first, moaning into the mattress, her sex tightening and milking that wondrous organ of her bedmate which brings her to the zenith of easy-gotten bliss. Claude follows soon after, spending himself into the rubber with a shudder and teeth biting into Byleth’s shoulder. He holds her tightly, like she is all that is grounding him to this earth.

It’s there again. A tenderness he is not prepared for, and one she does not feel she can return at this time. Not with the careful cultivation it deserves.

They acknowledge it without words. They rest.

After a brief cleanup Claude returns to bed, finally requests that Byleth strips the shirt and gathers her in his arms, and she curls her body neatly into the curve of his own. He relishes in this simple joy of life, of holding another human being—to feel bare skin upon bare skin and to feel wholly comfortable. He closes his eyes. Heat radiates off their bodies and the blanket cocoons them in a small sense of security. He brushes Byleth’s hair aside to plant a kiss on her neck. She smiles. They’re doing this all out of order and everything still seems completely fine.

Byleth begins to doze off but is rescued from the haze by Claude.

“You specifically told me not to let you sleep,” he says, and proceeds to list all the things she complained she had to do earlier in the day.

“Five minutes,” she says, and nestles closer, as if that was even possible.

“No, no,” Claude chides. “It’s also _your_ responsibility—” a yawn, “—to make sure that I also don’t slack off give the Alliance reason to believe that I am nothing other than the best leader they could have ever hoped for.”

Byleth scoffs. “What do I have to do with that?”

“Come on, Teach. Really?”

So the scruple continued until they arrived at the consensus that they were both responsible for each other, and rose and dressed at the same time.

At the door, hand on the knob, Byleth hesitates. Looks back at Claude, makes sure he hears this.

“I care about you.”

He sits relaxed at his chair, an elbow propped on his desk. Nods grimly. Waits. She returns the nod and leaves.

“Love you, too,” Claude sighs as he pulls a map from the pile, prepares to squeeze a little more out of the day.


End file.
